"Should we just stay on this yacht all day?" Danielle asked, lounging like royalty in a sleek white tanning chair. The sun was soft now, leaning toward evening, casting gold across the water as the yacht cut through it in slow, luxurious silence.
We were anchored far enough from shore that all you could hear was the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the occasional seabird overhead.
I had been here since morning, and somehow it was nearly 5 p.m., but I still wasn't ready to leave. The stillness of the open sea, the warmth of the deck beneath me, the feeling of being far—so far—from everything that usually felt urgent. This was peace. This was control. This was everything.
"Huh," I said beneath my sunglasses. "We should just live on here. It suits us."
She smiled. "It does."
For a while, we just lay there in quiet. The kind of silence that exists between people who don't need to fill it. But then, Danielle shifted.
